


White Mice

by orphan_account



Series: Glass Cases [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anilingus, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Cock Cages, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark Sherlock, Dom Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Medical Procedures, Orgasm Control, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Sexual Slavery, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Sub Irene, Sub John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Sherlock is an engineer by profession. He studied both engineering and chemistry at Cambridge.</p><p>Nineteen days after Sherlock kidnaps John, Sarah Sawyer reports him missing. The Met is on the case.</p><p>Sherlock performs a medical procedure on John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enquiries

Nineteen days after Sherlock kidnaps John, Sarah Sawyer reports him missing.

On the twentieth day, Sgt. Sally Donovan knocks on Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade’s door.

“Come in.”

She steps inside with a file folder in hand, and takes a seat across the DI’s desk.

“Have you watched all the CCTV footage from the pub?” he asks.

“Yes. The pub is open from 11 to 11. I talked to the closing staff from the first of May, they said the pub was completely empty when they shut it. Nothing in the tapes all night, until opening the next day.” She looks at her notes in the folder. “Two hundred fourteen people entered the pub on the second of May, including staff, but only two hundred thirteen came out. There were four minutes of footage missing from each of the four cameras, all from 9:51 to 9:55. Closing staff that night said no-one was in the pub when they left.”

Lestrade rests his elbows over the papers on his desk and thinks. His grey suit creases at the crooks of his elbows. “Collect CCTV tapes covering entrances, exits and exteriors of all buildings within a two-block radius. Pay special attention to anything happening from 9:51 onwards.”

“Yes, sir.” Donovan scribbles, “CCTV 2 blocks”, at the bottom of her notes.

“Did you notice anybody carrying a suitcase? Anything a person could fit in?”

“No.”

“Check again. Look for anything that could have been hiding a man. Have you asked IT about the missing footage?”

She jots down, “suitcase?” and then checks her file. She answers, “Larry says the cameras were on the 2.4-gigahertz wireless band, and you can buy jamming devices on the internet for that band, though they’re illegal to use. You can also make one yourself; there are many instruction videos online. Larry says a jammer would interfere not only with the cameras but also with Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and car alarms within its range. It could be as big as a car stereo, or smaller.”

“Ask the staff if they noticed anything like that. And if they remember anything about the missing four minutes. And find out if the cameras nearest to the pub were also jammed.”

She nods, writing, “staff - saw jammer? missing 4 min?” and on a new line, “neighbours’ cameras jammed?”

Lestrade continues, “Have you talked to the sister?”

“Yes. Harriet Watson says her brother doesn’t have close ties with the family, and it wouldn’t surprise her if he moved without immediately telling them. But she says he’s unlikely to just abandon his job and leave all his belongings in his flat. He would’ve made arrangements.”

“All right. Any leads from bank card transactions or phone records?”

“Nothing.” Donovan shakes her head, making her curls sway. “It’s like he fell off the grid the night he went missing. The last activity on his bank cards and his phone were at the pub, then nothing.”

Lestrade frowns. “Have you talked to the therapist?”

“My telephone appointment with her is in two hours. I’ll ask about his PTSD, medications, if he has suicidal tendencies, but Sarah Sawyer says he’s seemed perfectly fine for months.”

“Well, we’ll find out. Also check if he has contacted any of his friends from the army.”

“All right.” Donovan adds, “rang army mates?” to her notes.

“Anything else?” Lestrade asks.

“That’s all for now, sir. I’ll let you know after I talk to the therapist.”

“All right, thanks.”

Donovan stands, straightening her crisp white dress shirt, as she does by habit. She exits the DI’s office.

***

"Sherlock, why do you require a sedative and two kinds of anaesthetic?" Mycroft asks.

The suit-clad brothers are facing each other, sitting on their respective chairs by the fireplace at 221B Baker Street.

"I may have created a new formulation of fluid that can render humans unconscious. It's a quick-onset sedative in liquid or gaseous form, which could be easily reformulated to achieve one’s desired length and degree of sedation. But I need to test it against other sedatives and anaesthetics. I have some of what I need to produce a few comparative fluids, and I have leftover sleeping pills in my medicine cabinet, but I need more data."

Mycroft stares.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mycroft, I'm not trying to get high. This is science. You support my scientific endeavours, remember? I could develop this, apply for a patent, and then license the formulation. To a chemical manufacturer, for example. But I need to do more experiments."

"More?" Mycroft narrows his eyes.

"I've started with mice," Sherlock gestures to two glass boxes on the kitchen counter, each containing a white mouse.

Five days later -- in accordance with the brothers’ agreement that Mycroft will provide Sherlock’s experiment supplies as long as he remains clean and employed -- the elder Holmes’s minions deliver everything in Sherlock’s list of requirements, including the midazolam, alfentanil and ropivacaine in question.


	2. Silver Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You want to anaesthetise my chest?”
> 
> “Yes.”

John's cock has been in a plastic cage for 23 days.

In that time, Sherlock has fucked John more often than his other sex slave, Irene. She's slightly jealous, though she understands the appeal of new toys.

John doesn't feel new. He feels discarded, in fact. First, he was invalided out of the army. Now, he has been relegated to a mere receptacle for S's come, cock, fingers and sex toys. John feels dehumanised.

But the most humiliating part of his days is not the fucking; by far, it is going to the loo. Sherlock has taken John to the loo about a dozen times. Each time, John wakes up in a sitting position on the toilet, with his feet securely buckled down to the floor. He would be naked except for the cock cage, with his wrists tied together behind him. Sherlock would be standing a few feet from him, holding a syringe the whole time. On the countertop, within Sherlock's reach, are liquid soap and a hose with a valve.

If John needs to take a piss, Sherlock uses his free hand to angle John's cock downwards. If John needs to excrete solid waste, Sherlock simply keeps watch. When John is finished, Sherlock pours soap onto John's bound hands, and lets the seated man wash himself. Sherlock helps John rinse by carefully hosing down his arse. Once John is clean and towel dried, Sherlock injects him with the sedative, frees him from his bonds, and then moves him back to his cell.

***

This morning, John wakes up feeling a strong urge to touch himself. But he can't, because of the cock cage. This frustrates him.

But then it occurs to him that he has not had a nightmare in about three weeks. He figures it must be because of all the drugs S is giving him, in gaseous form and intravenously.

John paces inside his small glass prison, walking back and forth on his mattress. He is wearing a tight, thin, white short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of red pants over the plastic cage.

He absently rubs his fingers on the sides of his neck and on his arms, where S has injected him with needles. There are hardly any track marks, which means that S avoids pricking the same spot twice. Possibly, S is skilled in locating veins. John wonders if his captor applies an emollient to the marks on his skin while he's unconscious.

He wonders what sorts of things S has done to him that he cannot remember. For one, he is nearly certain that S cleans his cock and the plastic cage, even though he has never been awake to witness this. John knows that if his cock had been locked in chastity since the session when Irene whipped him, then there should be nasty condensation build-up inside the cage. But there isn't. Also, though John's cock feels restricted, it is not irritated, so S must be lubricating him.

The vent in John's cell hisses. He lies down, and then blacks out.

He wakes up bent over the bondage table, arse exposed. His wrists and ankles are far apart, restrained by thick strips of cloth. His pants are gone, but he is still in a t-shirt.

Before John realises that he isn't alone, he feels a palm slap his arse. It's loud. He grunts in surprise, and looks back over his shoulder. S is behind him, wearing a maroon silk robe.

“Of course it's me. Who else would it be?” Sherlock says. He smacks John's arse with his hand again.

Sherlock spanks John six more times, evenly distributing blows to both cheeks. Then he gently insinuates a finger down the crack of John's arse. The tender sensation causes a spark to spread across John's heated bottom. A moan escapes his lips without permission.

Sherlock smiles smugly. He lightly rubs John's rim, never breaching. When John pushes his hips backwards, Sherlock smacks his cheeks four times in succession. “My, my, John. How wanton.”

John's cock fills the cage. He wants release, he does.

In Sherlock's opinion, a beating by hand is zero percent punishment and 100 percent pleasure to the beaten. As for the deliverer of blows -- feeling John's warm arse with each hit causes Sherlock's own groin to warm up too. There is an intimacy in spanking that is absent from all other means of beating.

He strikes John hard, a dozen times more, until they are both pulling ragged breaths.

Then Sherlock pulls a nitrile glove and a small tube of lube from his robe pocket. He puts the glove on, pours lube onto his index finger, and then keeps the tube held in his non-gloved hand. Then he pokes at John's entrance.

Upon feeling the coolness of the lube in the centre of his hot backside, John groans. S teases around his rim for five minutes, stopping only twice to replenish the lube. Still, S does not breach his hole.

John pumps his hips forward to push his caged cock against the table. He needs to expand. He needs friction. He loses contact with S's finger because of his thrusting.

“I have something to ask of you, John,” Sherlock says.

“What is it?” John speaks hoarsely. When S does not respond, he adds, “sir?”

Sherlock positions his finger back at John's rim, touching but not penetrating. “I want you to let me perform a thoracic paravertebral block on you.”

John forces the cloud of lust surrounding him to crystallise and shatter. “You want to anaesthetise my chest?”

“Yes.” Sherlock wiggles his finger.

John ignores it. “Why?”

Without warning, Sherlock breaches John's arsehole. His finger deftly rubs John's prostate.

John's eyes roll. “Hnnng, why?” he repeats.

Sherlock slips the tube of lube into his robe pocket, and uses his now-free hand to spank John's arse. Simultaneously he curls his finger, gingerly, inside John.

John writhes and groans. “Tell me!” He forces his tightly wound body to calm. “Please.” He is equally worried (a thoracic paravertebral block can give him muscle pain, an infection, a haematoma, or a nerve injury) and aroused (his cock has been locked up for about three weeks, but S has been sexually stimulating him regularly, just days apart).

Sherlock goes on rubbing John's prostate, and answers in his vocal bass, “I want you to feel like your physical substance is concentrated in your groin. Extremities don't really count.” Sherlock bends, lips nearly kissing John's ear, finger still on target. “And then, once your sensory inputs are mostly coming from your groin, I…” Sherlock rubs faster, but maintains his light, circular strokes on John's prostate. “… will fuck you hard, and I'll let you come.” Sherlock licks John's earlobe.

Semen flows out of John's stifled cock. This takes the edge off, but does not provide the relief that John seeks.

Sherlock pulls his finger out, and stands straight. “What do you say, Dr. Watson? Will you assist me in a medical procedure on yourself?”

John dips his forehead onto the table. “You could severely hurt me.”

“Do you think I want to?”

John pauses. “You're… you're not a doctor, are you?”

“No.”

“Then how would you perform the procedure?”

“I've been studying it.”

“From a book?!” John lifts his head, and turns it towards S.

“Online.”

“Jesus.” That's even worse, John thinks. He drops his head again.

Sherlock plants wet, sloppy kisses on John's arse cheeks, which are still rosy from the spanking. He licks all over John's bottom, too.

“Jesus,” John repeats when S pokes his tongue at John's rim.

Sherlock withdraws his tongue but doesn't change the position of his head when he says, “Give me an answer, John.”

John has been slowly learning that he cannot really say no to S. Every time he does, S finds a way around the rejection, and in the end S gets what he wants in one form or another. All he gives John are false choices.

If John says no now, S could simply restrain him and perform the procedure anyway. Or John could be punished in any number of ways available to S, and later S might still carry out his plans, with or without John's consent.

“All right,” John croaks. He can't believe he's agreeing to this. He hopes it proves to be a good sign that S did not use as an argument, "I can do whatever I want to your body because it belongs to me," regardless of the statement's truth.

In response to the acquiescence, Sherlock breaches John with his tongue.

“Oh god,” John gasps at the obscene, delicious feeling. He tries to gyrate his hips, but S holds them still with both hands. S moans and drools into John's arse, and it doesn't take long for John's caged cock to leak semen again.

Sherlock pulls away and straightens up.

John sobs. He sorely misses getting hard and coming forcefully.

“I'll see you tomorrow for the procedure, John. Sleep well,” Sherlock says, before poking a needle into John's arm.


	3. John Watson's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock performs a thoracic paravertebral block on John.

Sherlock's soundproof, airtight sex room is now sterile, thanks to a vapour he expressly formulated for destroying biological contaminants. The room is now set up like a minimalist surgical theatre. At the centre, the bondage table will double as an operating table. Above it are three large lights, all installed within the last 12 hours. Several feet from the table is a cart. On the cart's top tier, there are two trays containing implements such as syringes, needles, gauze packs and cotton balls, as well as pills and four paper cups of water. On the bottom tier, there is an advanced first aid kit that includes a portable defibrillator, and a third tray covered by cloth.

Sherlock researched the thoracic paravertebral block online. The procedure will anaesthetise John's chest area, but will not prevent him from moving and feeling the rest of his body. According to the website of the New York School of Regional Anesthesia, "a certain mechanical mind or sense of geometry is necessary to master" the thoracic paravertebral block. This emboldened Sherlock, whose expertise lies precisely in the mechanical and the spatial.

Sherlock read voraciously. He studied all risks and possible complications, along with how to prevent them and how to deal with them if he had to.

***

John wakes up on the table. He takes a deep breath.

He is freshly washed, wearing white pants and nothing else. His cock is no longer caged in plastic. He is lying on his back, with his legs straight and his arms at his sides. Tied around his wrists and ankles are long strips of cloth, loosely linking his four limbs to steel loops at the four corners of the table. There is enough slack in the strips of cloth to allow John to sit up; in fact, the procedure will require that he be sitting, with his knees to his chest, and his feet resting flat on the table. He will also need to remain steady and keep his balance for the duration of the procedure.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock greets. He is wearing a sterile gown, a sterile cap, and sterile gloves. Under the gown are white boxers.

“Yeah, hi,” John replies as he slowly sits up.

“Shall we begin?”

“All right.” John gets into position. He wraps his arms downwards around his folded legs, and rests his hands on top of his feet.

Sherlock gives him a cup of water, and less than half of a pill. “Three milligrams of midazolam, to help you relax.”

John nods, and then pops the pill into his mouth. He drinks the water.

Sherlock returns the cup to the cart, and takes antiseptic-soaked cotton balls, a water-based pen and a short ruler. He applies antiseptic onto John's back. He makes seven marks downwards along John's spine, one on every bone from the first to the seventh thoracic vertebra. He makes additional marks 2.5 centimetres to the right and to the left of each vertebral mark, such that there are now three columns of marks on John's back. Then Sherlock walks back to the cart. “Ready for the analgesic?” he asks.

“Go ahead.”

Sherlock injects 500 milligrams of alfentanil into John's right upper arm, to prevent him from feeling pain from any part of his body during the procedure. The paravertebral block will involve multiple deep injections. Sherlock waits a few moments, and then pricks a spot on John's upper back with a needle. “Can you feel this?”

“No.”

He finds another spot. “This?”

“No.”

“Good.” Sherlock is now ready to begin the paravertebral block. “I'm going to use 0.75% ropivacaine,” he tells John.

The doctor doesn't remember the particulars of ropivacaine, only that it is a local anaesthetic. “Duration of anaesthesia?” he asks.

“About five hours.”

“Give me the range, please.”

“Four to six hours.”

“Duration of analgesia?” Ropivacaine has an analgesic effect, which will prevent John from feeling pain wherever the drug is applied.

“Twelve to eighteen hours.”

“Onset?”

“Ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Which vertebrae will you be targeting?”

“T1 to T7.”

“Bloody hell.” John works out that the procedure will involve 14 deep injections into his back.

Sherlock looks at John and gives him a few moments.

John takes another deep breath.

Sherlock fetches a cup of water from the cart, and gets John to drink it. Then he places the emptied cup back on the cart.

“Okay, yes,” John says. “I’m ready now.”

Sherlock makes the first injection of the procedure, at the topmost mark in the right-hand-side column on John's back. The mark represents the position of a transverse segment. Every mark on the right-hand-side and left-hand-side columns represents a transverse segment, and these marks will be the injection sites. The middle column is just a guide, marking the vertebrae to which the transverse segments belong.

When the needle hits the transverse segment, seven centimetres under John's skin, Sherlock pulls the syringe back. Then he pushes in again, at a slight angle. When the needle tip reaches one centimetre past the transverse segment, Sherlock pushes the plunger, releasing five millilitres of ropivacaine into John's chest. Within 10 to 15 minutes, John will lose feeling along his first rib on the right-hand side of his body.

Sherlock takes a new syringe from a tray on the cart, and makes the second injection at the mark below the first. He repeats the injection process for all seven marks in the right-hand-side column, and then moves to the other side of the table to complete the procedure for the left-hand side of John's ribcage. The injections vary in depth from three to eight centimetres, depending on the depth of the transverse segment being targeted.

After 14 injections and 70 millilitres of ropivacaine, John's chest is anaesthetised, front to back, from about the level of his collarbones to several inches below the tip of his breastbone. Somewhere within the region that John can't feel, his heart beats.

Sherlock gives John another cup of water, and then helps him lie down, supine, with his legs straight and his arms at his sides.

John feels strange. He cannot sense the upper half of his torso, and it's tripping him out. He feels like there was a cartoon cannon fired through his chest, and now there's a hole where his heart and lungs used to be.

“Relax, John. Your chest is there, you just can't feel it,” Sherlock reassures.

John closes his eyes. He’s all right, just a bit tired, and getting used to the expanse of numbness on his body.

“Midazolam,” Sherlock says as he puts a whole 7.5-milligram pill in John’s hand.

John throws the pill into his mouth and swallows. He shakes his head when S brings him water, mostly because he doesn’t want to lift his head to drink. Perhaps he's more than a bit tired, he thinks.

The pill will make it easy for John to drift off; the drowsiness will soon set in. In the meantime, he remembers what S said about fucking him and letting him come. He mumbles, with eyes still closed, “awake for come”. He wants to be awake when S fucks him.

Sherlock grins. “Yes, John, don't worry. The midazolam should wear off before I fuck your little arse.” Sherlock positions John's arms in a V above his head, then tightens the strips of cloth binding John's wrists to the corresponding loops at the table's corners. “You know, I like saying that. Fuck your little arse. I will fuck John Watson's little arse with my cock. I will also say whatever I like for the next few hours, because all of this will be but a haze to you once the effects of all the drugs wear off.” Sherlock walks over to John's left ankle and secures it. “I confess that there's something I didn't tell you, John. The reason I won't be fucking you right away is I'm going to perform another medical procedure on you first.” Sherlock moves towards the last loose strip of cloth, at John's right ankle. “I'm going to cut your chest open. I want to watch your heart beating while my cock is pushing again and again and again into your lovely little arse.”

John does not register Sherlock's words. He is asleep, and now restrained without any slack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The correct term for what I call "transverse segment" is "transverse process". But I figured that "process" is a potentially confusing noun, especially since I also use the word "procedure" in this chapter.


	4. Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock cuts John's chest open.

Sherlock scoops out the black silk blindfold and sleep mask that he had hidden inside the large, comprehensive first aid kit. He delicately blindfolds John, and secures the sleep mask around the doctor’s head for good measure. Then he walks back to the cart, and takes a bottle of iodine tincture and two small, square towels from the trays on the top tier. He places the towels under John’s left shoulder blade, and applies the iodine onto the left side of John’s chest. Sherlock waits for the emergence of rashes or any other sign of allergic reaction. When there is none, he turns to the cart again. He uncovers the tray on the bottom tier, revealing surgical implements such as forceps and clamps. He carries the tray to the table, setting it down in the triangular area formed by John’s arms and the table’s edge.

Sherlock stands on John’s left side. “Wake up, Captain John Watson.”

For about one hour, the combined effect of ropivacaine and midazolam will keep John’s heart rate lower than normal. He will feel sleepy, but if he sleeps, he will be easy to wake. When awake, he will be able to respond to simple instructions.

John moves his head slightly, from side to side.

“You’re blindfolded, John.”

“I see that.” John’s voice is raspy. He clears his throat.

Sherlock exhales deeply, relieved at the response. He takes a face mask from the nearby tray and puts it on. Keeping his voice even, he says, “Did you know that in the UK, the first heart bypass on a conscious patient was performed in Middlesex in 2003?”

“Harefield Hospital, yes,” John replies slowly. “I was at Barts then.” He tries to move his arms and legs. He can’t. He remembers lying on the table with his chest anaesthetised, and figures that S has tightened his bonds.

Sherlock flexes his fingers, and then reaches towards the tray for a scalpel with a No. 10 blade. “Fortis Hospital in Bangalore has performed 800 operations on conscious patients in the last 15 years.”

“’s a lot.”

“Yes.” Sherlock steadies himself. He begins his incision over John’s fourth rib, where it meets the breastbone. He drags the blade to the left, curving to dip a few inches below John’s left nipple. Occasionally Sherlock flicks his gaze towards John’s face, checking for a reaction. There is none. He continues, and then takes a deep breath once the six-inch incision is complete. He pulls a couple of dry, sterile wipes from a box on the tray, and uses them to soak up the blood dripping from the cut.

Sherlock switches to a scalpel with a No. 20 blade. He cuts deeper along the same incision, forcing John’s skin, fat, and pectoralis and serratus muscles to separate. When he reaches John's intercostal muscle, he pokes a hole into it. Then he trades the scalpel for Mayo scissors, and cuts through the intercostal muscle layer to match the length of the incision in the layers above. Sherlock takes extreme caution against hitting John’s left lung.

“Are you awake, John?”

“Mm? Yes, yeah.” The blindfold-enforced blackness makes for nearly seamless transitions in and out of sleep.

“How are you feeling?”

“’m fine.”

“Just one more step.” Sherlock returns the scissors to the tray, and pulls more wipes to clean around the incision.

“Mm?”

Sherlock ignores the implicit question. In a few seconds, John will forget that he’s waiting for an answer.

Sherlock grabs a rib spreader from the tray. He inserts the spreader’s blades into the open space in John’s chest, and then widens the gap. Finally he exposes John’s heart and locks the spreader in place.

John's heart is maroon.

Sherlock stares at the slowly beating organ. It mesmerizes him. He counts six beats every five seconds, which means John's heart rate is about 72 beats per minute.

Sherlock takes a battery-operated, portable suction device from the tray. He clears some of the blood in John’s open chest. John does not react to the mechanised sucking sound; it is only a low buzz to him.

“Hey, John?” Sherlock rouses the doctor.

“Mm?”

“Do you know what else I’ve studied?”

“What?”

“Intubation and open-chest CPR, just in case I’d need to perform them. But it looks like we’re doing all right, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, ’m all right.”

“You truly are.” Sherlock positions the suction device on the table, at the ready, to the left of John's chest. Then he grabs trauma shears from the tray and cuts through John’s pants, laying his groin bare. Sherlock puts the shears back on the tray.

He walks towards John’s feet, and detaches their cloth bindings from the steel loops at the table's corners. John doesn’t move. Sherlock climbs onto the table and lifts John's legs, one by one, tying the loose ends of the cloth strips onto two gymnastic rings suspended from the ceiling. Now John's legs are raised, bent at the knees and spread apart. Sherlock climbs off the table.

He pulls a bath towel (which he had sterilized) out of the first aid kit, folds it, and places it under John's arse.

John budges and briefly hums. He is waking properly, now that the sedative (midazolam) is beginning to wear off.

"How are you feeling, John?"

"I'm..." John minutely shakes his head, testing the sensations. Then he tries to move his arms, and notes the restraints at his wrists.

Sherlock gives John a few moments to reacquaint himself with his body.

The doctor doesn't feel his chest, so he shifts his attention to his lower torso and then down to his legs. He visualizes his vulnerable position. "I'm fine, I think." His breathing becomes increasingly shallow. He knows what's coming next.

Sherlock shimmies out of his boxers, leaving them on the floor. He picks up a bottle of lube from the tray near John's head, and then goes to the other side of the table to climb between John's legs. He kneels, and angles his upper body slightly over John's. He loosens the ties of his blue sterile gown, and pulls the gown's hem upwards and forwards. He turns the gown into a curtain falling from his shoulders onto John's stomach.

From the blindfold down to the makeshift curtain, John feels no object in contact with his skin. (Briefly his mind wanders, and he notes the smell of antiseptic in the air; he is grateful for this, because he cannot imagine how many sex acts have been done on the table he's lying on.)

On the other side of the curtain, Sherlock is removing his sterile gloves, and coating both of his hands with lube. He touches himself with one hand. He groans. His other hand finds John's prick.

John presses his lips together. He traps a moan in his throat.

Sherlock strokes both of their cocks with the same slow rhythm. He keeps his eyes on the opening in John's chest. John's heart rate has increased to 96 bpm. "Tell me something, John."

"Like what?"

"Anything. Is there anything you want to tell me?" Sherlock rubs his thumb over John's slit.

"Ohhh..."

Sherlock tightens his grip around both of their hardening cocks.

"Nggh." John strings words together, "How about... ugh... a question?"

"I may not answer, but ask away." Sherlock drags his fist up and down the length of John's cock. When his hand reaches the base, he unfurls several fingers and presses the tips onto John's balls. The pitter-patter touches cause John to feel the beginning of an orgasm.

"Ah, pl..." John stops himself.

"What was that?" Sherlock asks.

John hears the smile in the question. "I... I mean... please."

"Please what?"

"Please do that harder."

"But I thought you had a question. Don't you want to talk?" Sherlock resumes slowly stroking John's shaft, with a moderately tight grip. It is enough pleasure for a promise, but John has been waiting for the fulfilment for too long.

John begins to wriggle his arse. Sherlock quickly frees both of his hands and holds John's hips.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Sherlock says. He looks at John's heart. "I'm going to let go now. Don't move." Sherlock moves his hands to the other side of the curtain. He uses the suction device to clear the blood pooling over John's heart. He ensures that his hands touch and drip onto the device only, not onto John. When the blood pool is gone, Sherlock lays the device back on the table.

"What was that?" John's voice is stern, worried.

"What do you think?" Sherlock tests.

"It sounded like... a Hoover. What was being sucked off my chest that I can't feel?"

There is a pregnant pause before Sherlock answers, "Whipped cream."

John remains quiet, as Sherlock takes their cocks back in his hands. John's cock resumes growing erect in Sherlock's hold.

Sherlock calculates John's heart rate: 15 beats every 10 seconds, so 90 bpm. "John?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to pose your question?" Sherlock strokes both cocks a bit harder. He moans.

John moans, too. He takes a breath, and then, "Will you ever let me go?"

Sherlock does not stop stroking. He fractionally speeds up both hands. "I don't know, John."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"I don't think so."

"What about Irene?"

"The same answers apply." Sherlock simultaneously tightens his grip and quickens his pace on both cocks. The men groan at the same time. Sherlock seems to be working them both to completion, but then, "Don't come yet, John."

John grumbles. "But!"

"In a bit." Sherlock lets go of both cocks, now fully hard. He searches -- by hand, not sight -- for the bottle of lube in the area around John's arse and Sherlock's knees. When he finds the bottle, Sherlock applies some lube onto his right index and middle fingers. He pushes his index finger into John's hole, and aims immediately for his prostate.

"Jesus, fuck," John gasps. His heart rate is now 102 bpm. He works hard not to move his hips. He imagines that S has turned his chest into a food tray. Perhaps S has been sucking honey off of his nipples, turning them raw. Perhaps there is a tower of cupcakes on his chest, with strawberry jam poured onto them. Who the hell knows? "Ggahhh." S's touch on his prostate is unrelenting.

Sherlock adds his middle finger. He scissors his two fingers inside John, loosening him. Sherlock presses his fingertips onto John's prostate every so often, keeping John on the approach towards the brink. Sherlock briefly pulls out to coat his fingers with lube. When he pushes in with three, and then with four, John's heart rate rises to 114 bpm. "Tell me about something you love."

John thinks. "I was a doctor in the army," he pauses, "I think that's the only thing I've ever really loved. That job."

Soon, Sherlock counts 11 beats every 5 seconds. John's heart rate is 132 bpm. "I think you're ready." Sherlock pulls his fingers out. He expediently suctions the blood pooling in John's chest. Then he moves his knees backwards, decreasing the angle of his body, so his fully erect cock can enter John's hole. With his hands tightly gripping John's hips, Sherlock pushes in to the hilt. He watches John's heart the whole time.

Sherlock starts pumping. John's walls are warm, and the friction around Sherlock's cock feels wonderful. He pumps harder and faster, and John is moaning beneath him, and John's heart rate is now... really high (Sherlock keeps losing count), and John's beating heart is a beautiful thing, and he owns John, and John is his favourite toy of all time, better than cocaine, and Sherlock thinks he just heard John say please, so he asks, "I beg your pardon?"

John replies clearly, "Please touch my cock, please let me come, please." He nearly sobs.

Sherlock takes his hands off John's hips. "All right, but make sure you do not move." He grips John's cock with one hand. He throws some of his weight onto his other hand, which he lays palm down on the table for support. He wanks John roughly, and thrusts into his arse a bit slower than before. He rubs his thumb over John's slit. John likes that.

"Oh, god. Oh my god." John cannot see anything. He hears sounds, but only from himself and S. The room's sterile smell is non-factor; John is used to this sort of smell. There is not a lot of sensory input to focus on, apart from S's hardness pushing in and out of him between his legs. It feels like a beating -- a glorious, sensual, filling, satisfying beating that he had requested himself. And when S strokes him more roughly, and presses his fingertips all over the head of his cock, he cries, "I'm close, oh god, I'm close!"

Looking at John's quickly beating -- almost thrumming -- heart, Sherlock is amazed. He speeds up his thrusting, which shakes John's body and causes blood to pool again in his chest. Sherlock keeps going, fucking John's arse and working John's cock, until the doctor shouts "Yes!" and comes. Sherlock strokes him through it. Once John is done, Sherlock puts both hands back on John's hips and pumps into him unforgivingly, chasing his own orgasm. Sherlock comes inside John with a loud, long grunt.

When S pulls out, John's arse feels sore and raw. His hips feel battered.

Sherlock climbs off the table and reties the sterile gown around himself. Inside the gown are his and John's come; he will deal with those later. In the meantime, he briefly steps out to the loo to wash his hands. When he returns, he gives John another 7.5-milligram midazolam pill.

"Why?" John asks.

"Would you rather I inject you?"

John takes the pill.

When John drifts off, Sherlock gets to work. He takes a pair of sterile gloves from the first aid kit, and then thoroughly suctions the blood that collected in John's chest. He removes the rib spreader and pushes John's ribs back to their places with his fingers. Then he sutures the incision. He has done this before, suturing, so he no longer feels pressured.

Next he unties John's suspended legs, and lays them down on the table. He picks up the bottle of lube and his earlier-used gloves, which he had left beside John's arse, and throws them onto the trays on the cart. He moves everything else -- the suction device, the used sterile wipes, John's torn pants, the bath towel, the square towels, the tray -- from the table to the cart. He cleans the blood and come off the table, and cleans the come and sweat off John's groin. Only then does he return to the loo to tidy himself.

When John wakes from his one-hour midazolam nap, he is still blindfolded. His wrists are still restrained, but his ankles are not. He clears his throat.

"Hello, John," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, hi."

"I'm going to take your blindfold off now, all right?"

"Okay."

Sherlock removes the sleep mask and the blindfold.

John opens his eyes to the sight of S standing beside the table, naked except for a pair of white boxers. John looks down onto his own body. It is covered by a thin blanket.

"I have something to tell you, John."

"All right, go on."

"Your chest will remain under analgesia for another eight to fourteen hours, so you won't feel this yet, but you have a wound on the left side of your chest."

"Do you... mean... my bullet wound?"

"I didn't say shoulder."

"Did you... hurt me?"

"I don't know, John. Did I?"

"Well, I don't think so, but I'm medicated right now. And actually, what I meant was... What did you do?"

Sherlock lifts the blanket off John's chest, and folds it backwards over John's stomach. Then he bends down and kisses around John's sutures. His head blocks John from seeing them.

"I can't feel that," John declares.

"I know." Sherlock would kiss John's chest, John's nipples, even without the intent to arouse.

"Would you tell me your name?" John queries. S seems surprised by the question, and, for some reason, also pained.

Sherlock continues kissing John's chest, but more slowly. "I haven't told Irene."

"And you have to tell her before me?"

Kiss. "It seems fair that way." Kiss.

"Okay." John pauses. "What did you do to my chest?"

Sherlock straightens up his back. John looks down onto his chest.

"You cut me open." John's voice is small, disbelieving.

Sherlock is silent.

"Why?" John demands.

"I wanted to observe your heart. Watch it beat."

John tries to absorb this. "Why?"

"I wanted to reverse engineer you."

"Which means what exactly?"

"I wanted to see how you worked inside."

"Me specifically? Or humans?"

Sherlock feels like he's the one who's tied down. He considers the question. "You."


	5. The Name's Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock talks to Irene.

For the first time in a year, Irene wakes up in a proper bed. Sure, there's tape over her mouth, but it's an actual, proper bed with light grey pillows, high-thread-count sheets, a headboard and a footboard.

She is naked (she affectionately rolls her eyes when she realises this), and her wrists and ankles are loosely tied, with strips of cloth, to the bedposts. She can move quite freely, but she can't leave the bed.

She looks around the bedroom. It must be S's. On one wall hangs a framed periodic table. On another hangs what looks like parchment with Japanese text on it. Sounds of cars and people are coming in through a window and tickling her ears.

S is lying next to her. He opens his eyes when she stirs. "Good morning, sunshine," he says. He is wearing a basic blue shirt and black pyjama trousers.

Irene knows what S did to John last night. She could hear them. She was inside her glass cell, with tape over her mouth. Her wrists were bound behind her back by metal cuffs.

She looks S in the eyes and waits.

He embraces her with an arm and a leg. He doesn't speak for long minutes.

"Do you know what John said to me this morning when I checked in on him?"

Irene shakes her head.

"He said I didn't need to anaesthetise 14 ribs. He said 10 would have been enough." Sherlock smiles ruefully. "He wasn't... angry at what I did. Well, I didn't feel that he was, at any rate."

Sherlock kisses Irene's forehead and hugs her tight. Then he relaxes his arm around her again.

"You asked me for my name before. Do you still want to know?"

Irene nods.

"My name is William Scott."

Irene stares at him, and then furrows her brow.

"People address me as Mr. Scott, not by first name. I've come to prefer being called Scott, and that's why I introduced myself to you as S," he lies. "I would like you to keep calling me sir."

Irene nods. She recalls tender moments when S does not insist on the honorific. Now would be a good example of such a moment, if Irene's mouth weren't taped shut.

Sherlock's arm and leg remain wrapped around Irene as he falls back to sleep.


End file.
